


Devour

by Problematic_Wesker_Stans



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Control, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Graphic Description, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Incest, Loss of Virginity, Obsession, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 00:58:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21128168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Problematic_Wesker_Stans/pseuds/Problematic_Wesker_Stans
Summary: She is all he has in the world.She is his.He will not let anything take her from him.





	Devour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A collaboration between sadlittletiger, irithyll, and charmsfly. Please make sure to check the tags, and thank you for reading.

* * *

“She is so naked and singular.  
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.  
Climb her like a monument, step after step.”  
― Anne Sexton

* * *

She was all light where he was dark.

Pale freckled skin. Copper hair. Pink lips, open and pouting. Blue eyes - deep bright blue - looking up at him from under heavy lids and thick lashes the color of fox fur.

He always wondered where she found that light. Where she got it from. His parents gave him dark brown hair and chestnut eyes and a heavy brow. And her...they gave her the bridge of her nose. Wide shoulders and a wide jaw. All shapes he saw in the mirror every morning.

She was strange and foreign and horribly familiar, and for eighteen years, he hadn't been able to look away.

He moved above her like a shadow. She whimpered. Her nails dug into his back.

"Relax," he said. His voice was a dry, cracking whisper. "You have to relax."

"I can't," she panted. Her breath was hot on his face; he could smell the whiskey he'd shared with her. He smoothed her hair back roughly.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, strained and low.

"Yes," the confession wrung from her mouth like a sob. Their foreheads pressed together, she grunted as he forced more of himself into her. He watched her bright blue eyes screw shut, her pink lips tremble as she gasped. Her hands struggled for purchase on his arms.

"How bad?" he hissed through clenched teeth, his fingers closing around the milky column of her throat. "How bad does it hurt?"

"_Bad_," she breathed. He thrust deeper into her, into the slick, sweet little hole that gripped his cock like a vise. God, she was tight. She was _new _and she was tight, and if he didn't make himself go slow, _slow, _he was sure that she'd skin him. Sure that he'd split her open.

But her muscles pulsed and spasmed around him, so warm and wet, and slowing down seemed nearly impossible. Chris let out an anguished groan as he pressed his nose the side of her face, to the damp curls at her hairline, desperately breathing her in. He let his hand explore the lines of her body, tracing the sharp jut of her hip bone with his fingertips, letting his palm slip through the sweat slicking the flat planes of her stomach. He felt her labored breath, her belly rising and falling erratically as he stroked her. She was perfect, _fucking_ perfect, small and pale and scared. His fingers trailed back up to her neck, cupping her throat, feeling the wild stutter of her pulse. It fluttered in his hand - a fragile, fearful bird.

The way she whimpered as he drove into her made him light-headed. It made him ache. She was his sister, his _baby_ sister, and he wanted to pin her to the mattress and fuck her until she was raw. He wanted to break her, rip her apart. He wanted to _ruin _her.

_No one would ever touch her. _She was his sister. _His._

"Say it again," he rasped. "Say it hurts." He mouthed the line of her jaw, sucking the hollow soft space where her neck met her shoulder. His teeth razed her skin.

She was silent. She quivered beneath him, around him.

_Say it. Tell me. _He growled against her neck, his cock sinking ever deeper as her walls struggled around him. He sank his teeth into the flesh of her shoulder when she cried into the dark. She wouldn't push him out. He wouldn't let her. He'd stretch her and tear her until her pretty pink skin turned red and angry, until she went limp, lying in a puddle of him, of her, wet thighs trembling, eyes shut.

_Tell me how much it hurts, baby girl..._

* * *

Chris opened his eyes when he heard the rumble of the bike's engine in the driveway.

It was late. The bedroom was dark, and dim light from the porch filtered in through the blinds, casting yellow stripes on the carpet. He blinked, turning towards the clock on the nightstand.

_1:39._

_Shit. _He sat up too quickly, head swimming. His breath stung in his chest. His muscles ached. His right hand hovered in a loose grip around his cock, and it twitched restlessly, hot and throbbing.

He wedged his shaking fingers through the blinds, the yellow glow cutting across his face. He saw Claire, still straddling her motorcycle, her dark figure in their long driveway. She reached up under her chin, unbuckling her helmet, casting a tall thin shadow in the garage spotlight.

"_Fuck_." He bunched up the satin in his fist, feeling the chill of his own pre-cum as it seeped through the fabric.

He clambered off the bare mattress, stumbling towards the dresser. He yanked open the stubborn top drawer; the whole thing lurched free, and its contents spilled across the floor.

_Shorts. He needed shorts, boxers, something..._he dug through the mess of clothes on the floor, tossing aside stained t-shirts and old jerseys. He finally grabbed a pair of silky basketball shorts, scrambling to his feet, counting the seconds until she made it to the porch.

He hopped clumsily on one foot and then the other, wrestling into the shorts, smoothing the polyester down over his painful hard-on. He ran a hand through his hair and stopped, listening intently, waiting for the familiar grind of the lock sliding at the front door. And as he stood, chest heaving, his cock going mercifully limp at the terror of being discovered, he looked down at the soiled fabric still bunched in his hand.

Her thong. Black and simple, barely enough to call _underwear. _Just a scrap of cloth and some strings.

His stomach churned at the thought of her wearing it.

His groin tightened. _Not again, not now._

Repulsed, he threw the panties aside, furiously kicking his own clothes over them.

_Under the mattress. He'd keep them. She wouldn't know, wouldn't look, he'd have them and-_

He choked on the thought, sour, burning like acid. _No time now. _He crossed the room in three long strides and threw open his bedroom door.

* * *

He was ominous and still on the landing, glowering down at her in the near-darkness. He saw her shoulders rise as she took a deep breath; she was steadying herself, gearing up to face him, he knew it. She pressed the front door closed, softly, with both hands. Her fingers drummed against one of the decorative glass panes, a brief contemplation before going head first into the fire.

_She was rehearsing her lies_, he knew. _What would she pull out of her hat tonight?_

She sighed and turned to him, looking up the narrow staircase. The keys in her hand clinked nervously.

"Hey," she said quietly.

He shook his head.

"I picked up an extra shift—"

"Claire."

"You know Pickle Bill's is open until two—"

"_Claire—_"

"Seriously, I'm fucking eighteen now—"

"You know who else was _fucking eighteen_?"

"Oh my God, I just wanna go to bed!"

"—Sarah Goodwin was eighteen."

She squared her shoulders. "I'm going to bed."

"_The hell you are_," he barked, his jaw clenching. "We're not done here."

Claire narrowed her eyes, an angry flush surfacing on her pale skin. He could see it even in the low light. "You're not fucking _dad_, Chris," she snarled.

He pulled back at the mention of their father. Gone. Dead. Rotting in the ground. For a decade. His nostrils flared. He breathed slowly, counting to ten in his head, as his rage burned a hole in his gut.

She mounted the first step, and then the second. Her thin hand ran up the banister, her knuckles bone-white as she gripped it. She stared at him. "This case is making you a monster."

He gritted his teeth so hard he was sure they'd crack in his mouth.

She took another step towards him. "You're paranoid. You're getting worse." And another step, and another, until she was right in front of him, until she was close enough to touch. "What happens if he puts you on nights, huh? What happens when you can't be _on top of me_ all the time?"

He held his ground, his feet planted a shoulder's width apart, blocking her progress to her room.

She gazed up into his impassive face. "You ever gonna be off-duty, _Officer Redfield_?" she asked bitterly.

They held each other's glare for a beat… before he slowly moved aside to let her through. He leaned on the wall as she passed, the brass buckles of her coat brushing his naked chest.

"You know how she died?" he asked, the words bursting out before he could catch them, before he could think.

He heard her stop somewhere behind him in the dark hall. He licked his bottom lip - dry, rough. He stared ahead, eyes locked on the door.

He tried not to think of Claire's face when he spoke.

"The guy must have, um… used a…ligature. Like a wire. Wound it so tight that it cut through her throat, all the way to her spine." He glanced over his shoulder into the darkness. "You ever see the inside of someone's neck?"

She was silent.

"He raped her first, while she was still alive. He used something big, and sharp. We don't even know what yet. The whole… goddamn lower half of her body was just..." He trailed off and bit the inside of his cheek. _What was the word the Captain had used?_

_Eviscerated._

He finally turned to her, his arms still crossed tightly. She looked at him for a moment, shamefully quiet, her fingers worrying the cuffs of her leather jacket. Eventually, she averted her eyes.

"You're all I've got," he said, his voice soft. "I would kill myself… if I let that happen to you."

He watched her throat work as she swallowed. Without looking up, she said, "I love you too."

And her door whispered shut behind her.

* * *

_The walls weren't thin enough. The house was so old. The walls were plaster. The walls weren't thin at all._

He had the same thought each time he sat in the hall outside her bedroom. For a rickety, drafty farmhouse, he couldn't hear shit. He rested his head against the peeling yellow wallpaper. He closed his eyes. He listened to his own breath, in and out, steady and measured.

He thought...or hoped...he heard the squeak of her box spring mattress.

Her lamp was on. The light spilled through the crack under the door. It was the same lamp she'd had since she was ten. Purple shade. Matched the purple bedspread, the purple sheets, the purple curtains. She hadn't changed it. Not since she was little and everything was purple.

The lamp sat on the old vanity, the one with the big mirror she'd covered in pictures. Her and grandma. Her and grandpa. Her and Crystal Bowers, Amanda Preston, Jessica Lamprey. Pictures from birthday parties. Pools in the summer. Halloween costumes. Laughing. Always laughing, loud and bright.

She had a stack of CDs beside her bed. All the usuals. Smashing Pumpkins. Garbage. Radiohead. Oasis. Kept her Walkman under the pillow. Listened to them until she fell fast asleep. He thought about her curled up, knees pulled tight towards her chest. He thought about her eyes closed and her lips parted, just a little, just enough breath to stir her hair.

He never opened the door.

He wanted to. His fingers twitched against the old wood floors at the thought of it. He wanted to every goddamn time this happened - every time they fought, yelled, locked horns, and she'd go to bed, and he'd sit outside in the hall until his eyes burned and the sky bled from black to light grey.

Until he convinced himself that she was fine.

He ran a hand over his face. It was going to be a bitch of a morning. The department was short-staffed, and he was staring down the barrel of yet another twelve hour shift. That meant two packs of cigarettes and too many pots of coffee. He'd bet on a headache, too...one that would get worse every time the dispatch scanner screeched.

He shifted his weight, careful of the creaking floorboards. She'd said she loved him. She'd been angry, but she'd said _I love you, too, _and now she was quiet as a church mouse. Probably fell asleep without a second thought. Left the light on. He'd hear her up and showering in a few hours. He'd smell the peach and ginger shampoo in the wet, hot air of their little bathroom on the second floor. He'd listen to her hurrying down the stairs to the kitchen, watch her grab a strawberry pop-tart from the top cabinet, ignore the way her shirt rode up and revealed a quick flash of skin…

"Hey."

He jumped at the sound of her voice, muffled behind the door.

He held his breath. His muscles froze.

"Yeah. No way I can sleep now."

Someone on the phone. He exhaled slowly, and watched her shadow pass through the light under the door. Her voice got quiet, louder, quiet again as she walked.

"It's bullshit," she said. "I came straight home after work. _Straight_ home. And he was still…"

The words were just above a whisper. He strained to hear them.

"I wish you were here too," she said.

She said it sweet and soft. He'd never heard her talk that way before - no bite or burn. She sounded impossibly young.

He hated it. He hated the fact that she kept this part of herself away from him, hated the fact that someone _else_ was relishing in this secret side of her. She was his baby sister—_his_—and no one deserved to hear that innocence but him.

His blood boiled and left him doused in a light sheen of sweat. Chris scrambled to his feet, creaking floorboards be damned, and lunged towards the stairs. He took them two at a time, leaning heavily on the banister, his scattershot thoughts holding together long enough to keep him from thundering down them.

Just long enough.

_Who the fuck would she call. Who would she call in the middle of the night. A fucking school night. Who would she want with her?_ The questions piled up like a stunning, horrible train wreck. _Who the fuck was it?_

He jabbed at the phone cradle, punching the scroll buttons over and over, watching what felt like a million goddamn numbers cycle through until…

_There it was. 2:17 am, outgoing call._

Licking his lips, his jaw muscle grinding in a tight circle, he plucked a pen from the stationery cup, and ripped a piece of notebook paper in half. He started to scratch down the number.

_5...7...3..._

It wasn't writing; it only tore jagged little holes in the sheet. He tapped the pen on the banister, licked the tip, tried again.

_5...7..._

_Nothing._

His fist pounded the foyer table, just once. He tossed the pen away, heard it clatter and roll across the uneven kitchen tile. He grabbed a sharpie, thick and black, and it squeaked as he scribbled down blocky numbers - numbers that bled through and between the blue lines. Permanent, indelible, like a betrayal.

_573-485-2312_

He stared at it and swallowed, his eyes on fire. The sweat on his back had chilled in the cold October air of the house. He felt a droplet of perspiration roll down his temple, and he smudged it away with his gun-callused knuckles.

_Tomorrow. _He would find out tomorrow.

* * *


End file.
